


Tempt My Trouble

by Wemmabby



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Character Study, F/F, Femslash, Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-05-14 05:55:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14763899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wemmabby/pseuds/Wemmabby
Summary: She doesn't know how to stop.





	Tempt My Trouble

The dull, fluorescent lights flicker and dim as Eve scrubs her hands under the chilled faucet water, staring at her cold reflection in a broken mirror, a woman who resembles...a spitting image of...well, nothing much, really. She runs her hands through her thick, unruly hair, unsure of what purpose this is serving.

Someone exits a gray bathroom stall. Someone small, young, pretty. Someone who has her whole life ahead of her, who still possesses the ability to not fuck everything up with one poor decision that’ll spiral into a lifetime of other poor decisions.

She’s pretty. Eve already noticed, but she notices again, because the girl is impeccable, clean-cut, wide-eyed, and it’s impossible to catch her, to digest her, with only a brief glance. She feels the girl’s gleaming eyes burn through her like lasers. Eve shifts, unbalanced, uncomfortable being looked at this way. “Are you alright?”

The girl says nothing, her expression plain, doesn’t even consider using the faucet, and makes a beeline for the doorway, hovering there timidly like a child. “Wear it down,” she says softly and earnestly. The next second she is gone.

Eve feels something stir inside of her, rattling around in her ribs, pulling at the nerve endings in her fingers, but she contains the feeling. Her focus shifts back to the dirty mirror, to her own reflection, her hair tousled, her gray overcoat that blends seamlessly with her surroundings.

Still cold, still the same.

…

Eve often wonders what it’d be like to exchange her noir glasses for rose-tinted ones. She often scrapes her nails along her bedroom window, carefully estimating how much blood would gush if she cracked the glass with the hardness of her knuckles, how badly it might sting.

London is drab. People like it here, she reminds herself. People love this city. She loves it, too, but sometimes she wants to tear it apart, create a mass hysteria, punt a rock through a storefront window, watch the glass shatter and chip and crumble as people scatter and flee.

Sometimes her mind wanders to Cannes, or Dresden, or Las Palmas. Sometimes she is so close to running, so complacent in her own stubborn delusion, but she never gets close enough, never feels bold enough, and she’s reminded of this when Niko rings her, asks her to pick up some eggs (and maybe some milk) from the grocer’s, his gruff voice ordinarily, sufficiently happy.

Sometimes when Niko is asleep beside her she imagines his hands clenched around her neck, squeezing, suffocating, menacing, and she holds her breath like she’s taking a nosedive, acknowledging the feeling for what it is.

Other people would feel lucky, she reminds herself. Other people would be happy in this life, with this wonderful man, in this beautiful city. She ponders it more. It’s not that she’s unhappy. There is nothing wrong with Niko. There is nothing wrong with bustling London, or her secure job, or her comfortable life.

She begins to think there is something wrong with  _ her. _

…

She begins to wonder why she feels fervently alive when she’s trailing a serial killer, and dead when she’s laying the table for a candlelit dinner with Niko, dead when he’s kissing her gently and sweetly, like he might break her. Dead when he fucks her in the most polite manner humanly possible.

Her mind goes numb when she looks at him. Her hands feel useless, settled, small. Her legs urge her to run but stay glued the cherry wood floorboards. Niko doesn’t like them. She knows that. He bought them for her because she liked them. He could toss his money at whatever Eve wanted, but he couldn’t fuck her like she wanted, couldn’t thrill her the way she wanted, and she craved that, she ached for that.

She doesn’t know how to stop.

…

Maybe what she wants is too perverse, too depraved. Maybe, she’d be better off here. She knows she would be. So why isn’t it true?

She holds Oksana’s mugshot between her index finger and thumb, studying it, tracing her nail along the girl’s jawline, the curve of her nose, the fullness of her lips, memorizing her. Maybe, Eve thinks, she doesn’t deserve to die. Maybe, she’s the same as anyone, a rootless being, a lost spirit, floating aimlessly, waiting for life to mean something, waiting for someone she means something  _ to. _

Eve needs to write this down, needs to get it all on paper, but is stunted by Niko’s annoyingly usual entrance through the front door. She could stay at her desk. She could stay with Oksana, with this case. She knows she can’t, but there’s a glimmer of expectation in Oksana’s photo, a hint of intrigue and terror that make it impossible to stay away.

You’re just dedicated to your work, is what she tells herself. It makes her feel better. It makes it easier to hurt him.

You’re too invested in this girl, is what they both start to believe.

…

There is something more to her. There ought to be. There are no answers, no definitives, no boundaries, and the imaginary wall Eve had erected in her mind begins to collapse, and the line she’d drawn between herself and Oksana dissipates, fades.

She’s lonely, deep down. And broken. She’s longing for something more, something she’s not supposed to have, something she’s unequipped to handle. She’s smart. Funny, even. And charming. A prick, nonetheless, but still charming. And she cares about people, in her own twisted, neurotic way.

“How would you know that?” Niko demands, oozing with skepticism.

“Because I’ve lived it,” Eve says, confident. “She cares about me. She’s interested in  _ me.” _

He scoffs. “In what world is that a good thing?”

Eve laughs, actually laughs. “Maybe in a world where she’s killing innocent people and somebody needs to stop her.” She feels her heartbeat fasten like a ticking time bomb. “It has to be me. I can get through to her, I know I can.”

“You’re not saving the world, honeybunch!” Niko’s voice is booming, tangibly angry, yet alarmingly petrified. “You’re getting off on sniffing out a psycho!”

He won’t hit her. She knows he won’t. So she hits him.

Maybe she’s changed. Or maybe she hasn’t.

She finds it hard to care.

…

In the dark of her room it’s quiet, bewilderingly quiet. The window is open a crack, just enough that a cool breeze slithers through the window and envelopes her in chills. Her head turns to double (or was it triple?) check that Niko’s asleep. Somehow, after everything, she’s still ended up in bed with him. She pauses. Breathes. Lifts up her shirt to look at it again. It’s purple, deep aubergine, blooming, slowly smothering her. She should be belligerent, disturbed, but her conscience is floating above her like a detached feather, a disembodied cloud.

It feels like a claim, a marking of territory. An inviting, searing threat. Her fingers swirl around it, caressing it, while her mind unwinds. The bruise stretches across her rib cage, curving gently under her breast, and it is almost sensual, almost alluring. Almost.

She wonders what damage her body would’ve endured if Oksana had shoved her against the fridge just a little bit harder. She wonders how slowly, how brutally she would’ve died if Oksana had pushed the knife through her jugular, how tantalizing, how riveting that suffering might feel. She imagines her mouth filling with liquid scarlet, overflowing like a crystal spring and dripping into the palm of Oksana’s hand.

When Oksana is beside her, each subtle movement hits Eve like a cyclone, a devious, yet delicate whirlwind that has somehow caught fire and burst into flame, singeing and sculpting everything in its path.

She imagines the sharp edges of Oksana’s teeth sinking into her lip, her practiced fingers guiding Eve into some expensive satin gown, the softness of her freshly shampooed hair, the urgency and violence of her kiss. The prospect of being seen with fresh eyes as she so longs to be seen.

She checks again to make sure Niko is sleeping.

The next second she is gone.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from: "Tempt My Trouble" by Bishop Briggs
> 
> My tumblr: wemmabby.tumblr.com
> 
> Link to my Villaneve playlist:  
> https://open.spotify.com/user/uber_cool/playlist/2V4aRzVlXiZadgNRW7aUBs
> 
> Thanks so much for reading :)


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